It Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Tickin'
by TraSan
Summary: A watch is just a watch, unless it's symbolic of so much more. Things can be replaced, but a family's love endures.  Originally published in the fanzine 'Blood Brothers 4.'
1. Chapter 1

**It Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Tickin'**

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine.

**Timeline: **Season 1

_**A/N:** _This story was first published in the fanzine Blood Brothers 4 in Spring 2010. Congratulations to all the other authors and to our fabulous editor Jeanne Gold, as BB4 just won the Fan Q Best Zine Award at the 2011 MediaWest Con. Jeanne (A J Wesley) is in my favorite authors list and she is the one to contact if you're interested in purchasing Blood Brothers 5! Many thanks to Jeanne for support and patient editing throughout the entire process. Thanks also to Phx, Carocali, Geminigrl11, and Charlie Girl 79 who all saw this story in different stages of completion and listened to my neurotic blathering! __

**0-0-0-0-0-0-**

They'd been tracking it for hours.

Traipsing around the snowy, forested Strawberry Mountain wilderness had proven challenging. The high elevation meant less oxygen, less shelter from the wind, and while the craggy outcroppings added welcome landmarks, the tall pines and larch trees provided better protection from the weather. It was home to elk, deer, bear, cougar, and not so coincidentally, the bulchin.

The research Sam had done the last three days seemed like such a waste of time now. The bulchin wasn't just elusive, it was simply not to be found. Period. Sam trudged through the snow next to him, his breath escaping in white wisps. He looked as tired as Dean felt.

"It's going to get dark soon," Sam said with only the smallest hint of what could have been classified as a whine.

Dean ignored him.

"Maybe we should head back, try this again tomorrow?"

"We've got a good thirty minutes yet, Sam," Dean said, his voice rough. "I want this thing. It's killed three people already."

"I want it too, Dean," Sam replied with a light sigh, "but it's not here."

"It's here, I can feel it." Dean plowed through the white drifts, determination spurring him onward. "Thirty minutes and if we don't find it, we'll turn around and come back tomorrow."

"Fine," Sam said, stopping to hitch his backpack further onto his shoulder. "Maybe we should split up, cover more ground?"

Dean pursed his lips, considering his brother's proposal. He pulled out his phone and checked the signal strength. It was only two bars, but it was enough. "Call if you spot it."

"You, too." Sam jerked his thumb east. "I'll head that way, circle back towards you?"

"Sounds good."

Dean watched briefly as his brother strode away before heading in the opposite direction. It turned out "thirty" was eight and half minutes longer than he needed. He spotted the huge, almost pudgy panther-like creature crouched in the snow, blue-green eyes glinting in the afternoon sun.

He slowly crouched to set the duffel on the ground, raising his weapon as he stood. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, but he didn't move for it. Sam was just calling to say he hadn't found it, and right now, Dean had the bulchin in his sights.

The white-furred creature moved silently over the snow, headed in Dean's direction. As it drew closer, he could see bloodstains on its stubby muzzle, and it appeared to be favoring one of its back legs. The bulchin didn't seem to notice his presence and he took full advantage of it, using the time to sight his weapon with a care he didn't usually have time to take. Inhaling deeply and letting it out slowly, he gently pulled the trigger.

The massive beast yelped in pain as it fell to the ground. A cloud of powder rose from the impact. Dean lowered his gun to his side, striding closer to the bulchin. Sightless, glazed eyes gazed from the creature's sockets. The pupils weren't vertical like a cat's, but rounder like a human's. Not that any of it mattered much because it was definitely dead.

The phone in his pocket started vibrating again, and this time he fished it out, thumbing the talk button. "I got it, Sam," he said, hunter's high adding excitement to his tone. "I'm about two clicks northwest of where we split up. Get over here and help me take care of this thing."

"_Dean." _Sam's voice was weak, just above a whisper.

"Sam?" Dean froze, his heart stuttering. Silence sounded through the open line. "Sam?"

"_Dean."_

Dean was moving, rushing back to the duffel and swinging it over his shoulder as he ran through the snow, headed east. "Sammy, where are you?"

Sam panted in irregular bursts, his breath sounding labored and harsh over the phone. _"Dean, please."_

"I'm on my way, just hang in there," Dean said. He needed to hang up the phone, pour all of his energy into running, but he couldn't leave his brother alone like that.

"_It got away,"_ Sam whispered, his voice barely audible. _"Careful."_

"I got it, remember?" Dean said, picking up the pace. "Don't worry. Just keep talking to me."

"_Tired."_

"Stay awake, Sam, talk to me." The phone line remained silent. "Sam?" When his brother didn't answer, Dean kicked it into high gear, running as fast as he could while sinking to his knees on each step through the dry, powdery snow.

It started snowing harder, but Dean could see a large outcropping of rocks ahead. It would have been a perfect place for the bulchin to hide and therefore, the first place Sam would have looked. Dean picked up the pace and soon a dark outline on the ground, that could only be Sam, came into view. Dean fell to his knees next to his motionless brother, brushing the light dusting of fresh snow off his face. "Sammy, hey, talk to me."

Sam's shirt and jacket were ripped to shreds. Blood oozed from the cuts on his chest and soaked into the snow next to his arms in a slowly growing ring. "Dean?" His eyes fluttered open.

"Yeah, kiddo, it's me," Dean said, ripping open his brother's shirt wider to get a better look. Angry crimson lines ran from his right shoulder and disappeared near Sam's left hip.

"You get it?" Sam's eyes darted from Dean to the nearby surroundings.

Dean put on his best mock-offended look. "Of course I got it." He ran his fingers over Sam's head, checking for lumps. It concerned him that his brother's computer-like brain couldn't hold onto a simple fact, and it had Dean thinking possible concussion. There it was—a sizeable goose egg on the back of Sam's skull.

Sam nodded, offering a weak smile before he grimaced. "Arm hurts," he panted. "Think it got me."

"What?" Dean hadn't noticed anything wrong with his brother's arm. Frantic, adrenaline-clumsy fingers fumbled with the torn material, ripping the sleeves on Sam's jacket and shirt wide open. A bite mark on the younger man's left shoulder was raw, flesh torn; the feline's fangs had continued to sink in and tear down his arm to almost the elbow. Blood ran in rivulets from his injuries. Sam was damn lucky it hadn't severed any of the large veins or arteries running through his upper arm. Yeah, lucky, that was it.

"Help me up," Sam said. He shivered, teeth chattering.

"Not yet," Dean said, continuing to triage his brother. He rummaged through the duffel bag until he found the medical kit. Several pads tightly bandaged around Sam's arm helped control the bleeding. Dean kept his hand pressed against the injury, leaning over Sam's head to keep the snow off him. "Where else?"

Sam's face puckered in confusion as he shook his head. "Where else?"

"Where else are you hurt?" Dean asked, the concern for his brother growing. "Sam?"

"I, uh, nowhere?"

"That a question?"

"No?"

Dean's palm felt warm and sticky. He lifted his hand, staring at the crimson coating his fingers and the bandages. It was too much blood, the injury too severe to simply patch Sam up and walk him out of there. Not without risking his life and Dean wasn't taking that chance. He had his phone open and dialing before his mind fully registered the automatic response.

"_John Day dispatch, what is your emergency?"_

"My brother and I were out hiking and he was attacked. He's lost a lot of blood."

"_Sir, can you tell me where you are?" _

"I can give you the coordinates."

After giving the dispatcher their location and gaining her reassurance she was sending help, Dean hung up, ignoring her instructions to stay on the line. He knew what he needed to do to help Sam until the medical team arrived. He didn't need the calm, well-meaning woman trying to help him stay grounded. He could fake being in control of a situation better than anyone.

He didn't want to leave the duffel with several of their weapons stashed out there in the elements, but frankly, he didn't see any way to sneak it into the hospital, either. Glancing around, he saw a niche in the rocky outcropping. Within seconds, he had the bag discreetly stowed away and had returned to kneel beside Sam.

"Help's on the way," Dean said, plastering on a false but hopefully reassuring smile when Sam opened his eyes to half-mast. "They'll be here any minute."

"You called for help?" Sam's forehead wrinkled with confusion briefly, then smoothed into understanding. "That bad, huh?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Dean lied. "Just didn't feel like carrying your heavy ass out of here, Cinderella, since you can't seem to stay awake."

"Sleeping Beauty."

"Who?"

"Never mind." Shivers chased up and down Sam's tall frame. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"Letting it get the jump on me." Hazel eyes reflected guilt through the pain.

"Sam, this is not your fault," Dean said, his voice rough and harsh. "Shit happens during hunts, to everyone."

A smile ghosted across Sam's face, his features softening to relief and the hint of self-satisfaction when he made eye contact with Dean.

The kid had tricked him into absolving himself for the injuries as well, the sneaky bastard. Dean smirked, letting his younger brother know he understood.

The bleeding wasn't slowing, so Dean applied more pressure.

Sam winced, a low groan escaping. "I can't feel my fingers."

Dean frowned, twisting to examine his brother's hand. Sam's fingers were white and cold. He didn't know whether it was blood loss or poor circulation, but either way Dean needed to warm the freezing digits. He curled his fingers around Sam's as the younger man's eyes drifted closed. "Hang in there just a few more minutes, no sleeping."

Sam opened his eyes. "Sorry, m'tired."

"Looks like you took a pretty hard knock to the head, Sam. That's not helping." He glanced around, willing the rescue team to appear. _Come on, come on, come on, hurry. _"But it's all the more reason you need to stay awake, okay?"

"Yeah," Sam said in a voice barely above a whisper.

An arctic gust blew over them, carrying with it the sound of approaching help. The distinctive beat of a helicopter's blades was unmistakable. Dean closed his eyes. It looked like he'd be flying today. The smart thing to do would be to hike back to the Impala and drive into town, not leave the car and all their belongings out in the woods unattended. It may be the most logical choice of action, but Dean wasn't about to leave his brother.

The whirring beat grew louder. Dean leaned down, closer to Sam's ear to be heard. "Help's here, Sam. I hope you're not too comfortable, because we're leaving."

Sam puffed a tiny laugh. "Nah, definitely ready to go."

"Good."

Dry snow blew in their direction, kicked up by the fast blades of the helicopter as it landed. Two paramedics carrying a stretcher ran toward them. "Sir, you'll have to move so we can work," one of the men said.

Dean nodded, releasing his grip on Sam. "I'll be right over there," he said, jerking his head to the side. He stood, backing away even as Sam's fingers blindly searched for his.

"Dean?"

The second paramedic jerked his head in Dean's direction. "He's over there," he reassured Sam.

Sam glanced around, glassy eyes searching for his brother. He groaned low in his throat when the bright, yellow cervical collar was fastened around his neck. Sam shivered when his shirt was opened wider for a stethoscope. His lips were bluish as one of the medics placed an oxygen mask over his face. He startled, puffing Dean's name in a muffled plea for help.

Dean worried his bottom lip as he crouched low by his brother's feet. He wrapped a warm hand around Sam's cold ankle and squeezed gently. "You're okay."

He stayed there, tethering Sam to him with a single touch until the paramedics shouldered Dean to the side to lift his brother onto a gurney. "We're loading him for transport," the first man said—Rick, according to the name written on his jacket. "Are you riding with us or picking up your rig?"

"I'm with you," Dean said without hesitation. He'd have the Impala towed if he needed to.

"Good enough. We'll get him inside and then you'll be able to find a spot. It'll be crowded, so I hope you're not claustrophobic."

Claustrophobia was the least of his worries. His first concern was Sam. Second, they'd be flying. "I'm good."

Rick nodded, then turned to his comrade. "On my count of three, Jim. One, two, three."

The paramedics lifted the stretcher in one smooth motion and quickly made their way to the waiting helicopter. By the time Rick waved Dean in, the other man was cutting Sam's shirt and jacket off. The door slammed closed as Dean found a small pocket of space near his brother's feet.

Rick started an IV while Jim cut away the bandages Dean had applied so they could work. All went fine until Jim attempted to remove Sam's watch. In spite of being strapped to the gurney, Sam resisted, twisting his wrist and jerking against the restraints. "No," he puffed behind the oxygen mask. "Stop."

"Sam," Dean said, giving his brother's ankle a light squeeze. "Hey, let the paramedics do their job, bro."

"No." Sam desperately sought to make eye contact with Dean. "Not my watch, please."

Dean looked down at the bloody timepiece and its cracked face. "It's a total loss, kiddo, sorry."

"No, it's not," Sam said, the infamous Winchester stubborn streak lacing his tone. "Dean, please."

"Okay, Sammy, what if I hang onto it?" Sam's frantic, but weak struggle ceased and he nodded his head. Dean leaned forward, undoing the metal clasp. He held the watch up so his brother could see it. "I'm putting it in my pocket."

"Thanks," Sam panted, finally relaxing and allowing the paramedics to continue working.

Dean smiled, once again softly squeezing his brother's ankle in response. He didn't remove his hand, leaving it in place to reassure Sam he was there, or maybe it was to reassure himself, at this point he couldn't tell anymore. Dean answered all the medical team's questions, easily explaining the attack by what looked like a small, white bear or a huge mountain lion. He knew how idiotic it sounded, but if someone found the bulchin's corpse, his story would hold true.

"A white bear?" Jim asked, forehead bunched in consternation.

"Yeah, or a big cat of some kind," Dean said, pouring his heart into his cover story. He'd heard frightened witness accounts enough times in his life to do a fair approximation thereof. "It all happened so fast."

"Right, well, we'll be landing soon," Jim said. "The hospital will have papers they need you to fill out while you're waiting."

"I know the drill." He knew it far too well, actually.

"Dean, one of us will update you after we relinquish Sam into the ER staff's care," Rick said, clasping Dean on the shoulder. "We'll take good care of your brother."

"How'd you know he was my brother?" Dean asked, his brow knitting.

Rick smiled, jerking his head in Sam's direction. "I heard you call him 'bro' earlier. 'Sides, a guy his size isn't a Sammy unless he wasn't always a guy his size."

Dean laughed, a short, shaky sound. "As a matter of fact, he used to be quite the shrimp."

"Hard to imagine."

A smile of fondness spread across Dean's face. "Sometimes, it's hard for me to imagine him any other way."

Rick returned the smile before turning his attention back to the younger Winchester.

0-0-

As promised, the hospital had copious amounts of forms for him to fill out while he waited. Dean's left leg bounced in time to his inner agitation while he worked on the last page. The small waiting room only had a few other people in it and they were speaking in hushed whispers that grated on Dean's nerves. The need to do _something _fueled his fidgeting.

The ER doors slid open revealing Rick, minus his jacket and hat. Dean stood, his feet nailed to floor.

"They're prepping him for surgery," Rick said, his voice the kind of calm only experienced medical personnel used when explaining dire patient conditions. "He's stable. They've managed to control the bleeding. He lost a great deal of blood and they're trying to replenish some of his fluids and blood volume before taking him to OR."

Dean's knees buckled with relief, sending his bottom plopping back into the chair. "So, he's okay?"

"They're taking him to surgery," Rick repeated, "but his life is not in any immediate danger." The salt-and-pepper-haired medic glanced around. "I can sneak you back to see him for a minute."

Dean was out of the chair and striding to the doors before Rick had a chance to react.

"Hey," Rick said, grabbing his arm, "the operative word here was 'sneak.'"

"Got it," Dean said, pausing at the doorway. "Just tell me what to do."

Two minutes later he was sandwiched into the crowded exam room with three bags of different fluid dangling on the IV pole, the heart monitor, the oxygen monitor, some machine that was automatically taking Sam's blood pressure, and countless other tubes and wires connected to his younger brother.

"You said he was okay," Dean hissed.

"I said he was stable," Rick corrected. "You gotta hurry, Dean. Amelia's only giving us a minute and she's hovering right outside the door. The only reason she's allowing this at all is because I'm here, but you're wasting time."

Dean nodded, acknowledging the validity of Rick's words. He knew he was wasting precious time, but Sam actually looked worse than before: pale, unaware, and incredibly young. Dean gazed at the slumbering giant doubling as his brother. It was almost impossible to believe Sam was really going to be okay. There had been so much blood.

"Sammy?"

Obediently, Sam's eyes fluttered open. "Dean?"

"Hey, they're getting ready to take you to surgery, but Rick here bent a few rules and got me back to see you."

Rick snorted. Apparently "a few rules" was an understatement.

"You're going to be fine, Sam," Dean said.

Sam's gaze flicked over to Rick. "Thanks."

"Your brother was terrorizing the Admitting staff. I didn't really have a choice," Rick quipped.

Sam puffed a laugh, wincing at the slight movement. He returned his attention to Dean. "You have my watch?"

"Yeah, I do, remember?" Dean asked.

"Good," Sam said, his eyes closing. "It's all I have left."

"Rick, you guys have to scram," Amelia said from the doorway. "Now."

Rick pulled on his arm, but Dean gripped Sam's cold fingers lightly. "I'm here, Sammy. I'll be here."

Dean couldn't be certain, but he was almost positive Sam whispered something about the fire taking everything else as they were herded out of the room by the insistent nurse.

"I'm off duty in two hours. Do you need a ride to your car?" Rick asked as they entered the waiting room.

"I'm not leaving my brother," Dean said.

"He'll be in surgery and then recovery." Rick took a seat next to Dean. "You have time. He won't know you're gone."

"I'm not leaving." Dean held out his hand to the older man. "But thanks."

Rick shook his hand, smiling broadly. "Sure, no problem. I can always take you out there tomorrow."

"That'd be awesome," Dean replied.

"Catch ya then," Rick said.

The medic stood and walked away as Dean picked up the clipboard of forms. He put the finishing touches on the last form and turned the papers in to the admitting nurse, who eyed him suspiciously, looking at him as if he'd been busted for his recon mission with Rick. After which, Dean settled back into the unusually comfortable waiting room chair.

Sam's words from earlier bothered him. He knew he didn't think about it often, because neither one of them had very many possessions, but everything Sam owned that wasn't on his back or in his duffel at the time of the fire, had been lost.

Dean had seen the picture of Mom and Dad on a shelf in his brother's apartment, several of Sam and Jessica together and with friends, the rows of books, their CDs, and movies. He'd taken a good look around Sam's place, trying to get a feel for what his brother had been doing, the man he'd become. The loss of Jessica had eclipsed everything, but Sam hadn't only lost his would-be fiancée in that fire, he'd lost his whole new life.

Dean fingered the blood-encrusted watch in his pocket, pulling it out. The face was cracked; it was just one more casualty in the losses they'd suffered their whole lives. One more thing his brother had to relinquish to the greater good. At least this time it was just a watch. The irregular pattern on the back of the timepiece felt rough on Dean's finger, garnering his attention.

He flipped it over, gazing at the inscription: _To my son, with love. _A lump settled in Dean's throat and refused to budge. How could he not have recognized it? No wonder Sam had freaked when they'd tried to take it away from him. Dad had given Sam this watch on his eighteenth birthday, his last real birthday at home. Sam hadn't been able to stop looking at it all night, his face lit up with a glow of happiness that Dean hadn't seen since. By his next birthday, Sam had already told them about Stanford and he hadn't received much of anything from either their dad or Dean that year.

Now Dad was missing and somehow asking Sam to part with his watch seemed impossible and heartless. After he picked up the Impala, Dean was finding a repair shop. Decision made, he slipped the timepiece into his pocket and settled into the chair to wait.

_TBC_

….….**Supernatural**….

**AN: **This fic was actually inspired by Jared. I was watching a few clips from the—I think Chicago convention—and he was auctioning off his Season 3 watch for his mother's students. I started thinking about how Sam doesn't really have that many things of his own, presumably having lost anything he might have had of consequence in the fire. He'd had the same watch for (at the time) nearly four seasons and it seemed like a perfect item that he'd actually had on him at the time, therefore it wouldn't have been lost.

Of course, literally the day after I finished this story, "Sam Interrupted" aired and we haven't seen that watch since! D'oh!

I'm running with Sam took it off knowing he was going to have to surrender it at the hospital and just tucked it away for safe keeping.

Darn Winchesters, always conspiring against me!

Incidentally, if you are old enough to not only know where I snagged the title from, but actually remember watching the commercials on television, you're old like me!

The story is complete, but Jeanne's notice of it being released for on-line posting took me by surprise and I haven't finished formatting and such. The second half should be up no later than tomorrow. Assuming, that is, that the sun doesn't finally shine and I get a chance to mow my lawn!


	2. Chapter 2

**It Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Tickin'**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine.

**-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

"_What's wrong, Sammy?" Dad asked. _

_Light from the hallway spilled into the room around his father's shadowed form. Sam shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest. It was the very first night in their new home, in a bedroom without his brother. _

"_I'm cold."_

_He heard his dad's footsteps travel down the hallway to his room, then return. Before long, Sam was nestled under the heavy quilt from his dad's bed._

"_Better, kiddo?"_

"_Better. Thanks, Dad."_

Sam swallowed, trying to force moisture down his dry throat, but it didn't work. As he shook off the last vestiges of old memories, he struggled to remember where he was. He had a vague recollection of being in a helicopter, and then a flurry of spotty images involving bright lights, poking, muffled noises, and pain. He definitely remembered Dean being here, so when he swallowed hard again, he wasn't terribly surprised to hear his brother's voice.

"Want some ice chips?" Dean's voice was rough with exhaustion.

Sam licked his lips; ice sounded wonderful but he couldn't get his voice to work.

"Open up, Sam."

He obeyed, and cool ice melted on his tongue, delivering blessed water to his parched throat. Sam's eyes didn't want to cooperate any more than his voice had, but somehow he pried them open. A smile lit Dean's haggard face when he noticed, and Sam was glad he'd made the effort. "Hey," he said, but it came out raspy and weak.

Dean's grin grew wider. "Hey yourself, slacker."

"How long?" Sam's eyes found the clock on the wall, but six-twenty-three was entirely unhelpful.

"About a day and a half," Dean said. "They'll be bringing around breakfast soon."

Sam licked his lips again, wriggling his nose at the uncomfortable sensation of dry air from the cannula. He gazed at his brother, appraising his appearance. Dean sported at least two day's worth of beard growth and purple bags under his eyes. "You should sleep."

"I slept," Dean said, dismissing his concern with the blunt tone of his reply.

The room curtain slid back. "Did you need something, Dean?" a petite young nurse asked, stepping in to turn off the call light. "Oh, he's awake! I'll be right back."

Sam furrowed his brow. He hadn't even noticed Dean hitting the call button.

"Her name's Robin. She was your night nurse, but she's pulling a double," Dean said, answering his unspoken question.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

"The bulchin got a taste of a Sammy-snack," Dean said. He shifted in the chair, offering Sam another spoonful of ice.

"Thanks," Sam said, slurping on the chips.

"You lost a lot of blood, Sam. I had to call for help," Dean said. His eyes moved to a spot on the wall, returning only when the brief flash of fear in the hazel-green depths had been contained. "You ended up in surgery to fix the bite on your shoulder and the tears in your arm."

Sam's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "I don't remember any of that."

"Guess you don't remember the helicopter ride then, either," Dean said wryly. His eyes grew thoughtful. "I remember," he said softly.

"I remember lying in the snow for what felt like forever, and then _you _were there," Sam said, fumbling to reassure Dean with a pat on his arm.

The curtain opened further and this time it was not only Robin, but an older woman in a lab coat. "Hi, Sam, I'm Doctor Sibley. Do you remember me?"

Her face was friendly, intelligent green eyes sparkling, but she didn't look familiar at all. "No," Sam said, weariness weighing him down. He felt his eyelids drooping, and he wasn't sure he could stop them. "I'm sorry."

A gentle touch on his shoulder, and there was a quiet voice near his head. "I'm going to take your temperature and your blood pressure," Robin said.

He nodded, but still jerked when the foreign object entered his ear.

"Sam, just a few questions and then you can rest," Dr. Sibley continued. "What is the last thing you remember?"

"I'm not sure," Sam said, forcing his eyes open. "I think I remember Dean talking to me earlier. It was in a different room, though."

"Hmm." Dr. Sibley's eyebrows creased with concern. "The only room you've been in other than the recovery room was an Emergency Department exam room and Dean wouldn't have been allowed back there."

Sam looked over to Dean, not missing the guilty look and slight blush on his face.

Unfortunately, neither did the doctor. "Or maybe he was there."

"Sorry, doc," Dean apologized.

Sam could tell he wasn't sorry. Knowing his brother, the hospital got off light with only one prohibited visitation.

"Well, because you've followed our rules since then, we'll just pretend that one never happened," Dr. Sibley said, waggling her finger at Dean. She smiled at Sam and continued. "Do you remember how you were hurt?"

Sam shook his head, wincing when the motion caused nausea to flare. "Not really. Some kind of animal, I think," he said with a frown.

"That's to be expected. You have a mild concussion, Sam," Dr. Sibley explained. "We did surgery to repair the injuries to your arm. I was initially concerned about nerve damage, but it appears the loss of sensation was temporary due to blood loss and cold. We've also treated the scratches on your chest, and while I suspect you will be extremely sore for a few weeks, only one of your ribs is fractured, the rest is bruising."

"What she's trying to say is Bambi beat the crap out of you, Sammy," Dean said, his tone jesting.

Sam sent a halfhearted glare in Dean's direction, and then focused on the doctor again. "When can I leave?"

The doctor laughed, the crow's feet around her eyes deepening momentarily. "Impatient? I'll have the nurses get you up and ambulating soon, but it will be several days at least. Sam, you lost a great deal of blood and there's always a risk of infection. You just had surgery, you'll need a PT consult just to verify range of motion and dexterity in your arm and hand…"

Sam stopped listening, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. The look on his brother's face told him all he needed to know. They'd be leaving sooner than the doctor planned, maybe even tonight. He nodded when she finished talking, not really paying attention. He was fighting to keep his eyes open, the activity in the room blending into a dull buzzing noise.

He drifted for a while, feeling the passing of time only as an abstract concept. It was quiet, and a warm hand rested on his uninjured arm. The smell of coffee and warm food tickled his nose, and then it was gone again leaving the strong scent of disinfectant.

When Sam finally pried his eyes open again, he wasn't surprised to see Dean sitting beside him. "When are we leaving?" he croaked.

"I still have to pick up the Impala," Dean said, handing Sam a glass with fresh ice chips. "But I was waiting until you woke up enough for me to tell you before I just disappeared." He sat back in the chair, stretching his back and shoulders. "We need to leave before they figure out I gave them bogus insurance information."

Sam nodded his head carefully, trying to avoid another round of nausea. That's what he had expected to hear. "Tonight?"

"Yeah," Dean said, "during shift change. Until then, Sam, you rest. Take advantage of Château County Hospital and I'll take care of everything else."

"Be careful," Sam admonished, shifting on the bed for a more comfortable position. He pushed the soles of his feet against the footboard. It wasn't working. The beds were almost always too short and this one was no exception.

"We got rid of the bulchin," Dean said, leveling a look of no-nonsense at Sam. "There's nothing for you to worry about."

"I know," Sam said, "just be careful though, okay?"

Dean sat back with a look of mock-offense. "I'm always careful."

Sam snorted, the action precipitating a round of ineffectual coughing.

Dean eyed him with concern, tapping the bed rail, his ring clinking on each strike. His other hand contradictorily rested gently on Sam's arm. "I'm serious. Get some sleep."

Sam nodded in assent. He was exhausted, keeping his eyes open only by sheer will. Sleeping wouldn't be a problem. "Go."

"Going." Dean stood, tossing on his coat while he walked out the door.

Sam hadn't asked him how he planned to get to the Impala, but he didn't really have to. His brother was nothing if not resourceful.

Despite his assertion that he would sleep, Sam didn't get the opportunity right away. A nurse and an orderly came in to help him change from a gown to hospital pants and walk down the hallway, which was harder than he cared to admit. His legs shook and sweat rolled down his back. By the time they got him into bed, Sam was exhausted. He was asleep before they'd left the room.

"_Sam, what's this?" his dad asked, holding up the permission slip to play soccer._

"_I thought, well, I was hoping maybe I could play soccer?" Sam asked, his tone hopeful. They'd been in town for two weeks already and Dad had promised they wouldn't move until Christmas break._

_His father's eyebrows bunched in thought, and Sam could tell he was going to say no. He'd seen the look often enough. As disappointment threatened to clench his gut, his dad surprised him by taking out a pen and signing the slip. _

"_Go get 'em, tiger."_

"_Thanks, Dad!" Sam smiled, running off to find his brother. _

When Sam woke up, it was dark. The quiet hum of the machines surrounding him and the dulled buzzing of the noises from the hallway were the only sounds. He stretched carefully, fully aware of every bruise and stitch on his body. He'd refused the last offered round of painkillers, knowing Dean was planning the hospital version of "dine and dash," because the medicine made him sleepy and his head cloudy.

The curtain drew back and Dean's shadowed form filled the space. "Sam, you awake?"

"Yeah," Sam said. He tried to sit up, but between the IV in his good arm, and the sling on his injured arm, he didn't get very far. As it was, his ribs and chest protested, sending ripples of pain that reached his toes. His breath hitched, and he felt a hand wrap around his.

"Take it easy," Dean coached, "I'll do all the hard work. You just work with me."

Sam nodded, lacking the breath for more. When his vision cleared and he saw what Dean had pushed inside the room, he formed his own protest. "No. Hell no, Dean."

"Come on, Sam, it'll be the easiest getaway ever." Dean patted the gurney. "All you have to do is lie back, and I'll push you right out the door."

"I don't like it," Sam said, allowing his head to fall back and sink into the pillow.

Dean tapped his knee. "You're not exactly in running form, Dr. Kimble." A hand behind his good shoulder and an arm wrapped around his legs helped Sam to a sitting position in one smooth movement. "Unless you have a better plan?"

"No." God help him, he didn't. It didn't mean he liked the idea any more than he did before. "Let's just get out of here."

"Now that, bro, is the right attitude." Dean adjusted the gurney until it was low enough that Sam could basically just stand and pivot. The IV was carefully removed, along with the oxygen.

Luckily, the catheter had been taken out before Sam's walking trip with the nurse. He would have yanked it out himself before letting his brother do it. As promised, Dean did the hard part, helping Sam stand. Then there was an awkward, clumsy dance to turn him around so he could sit on the edge of the gurney.

Sam's head swam with the change in elevation and he quickly lost equilibrium. He collapsed to his side, leaving Dean scrambling to swing Sam's legs up, keeping him from toppling off the gurney. "Think I'm going to hurl."

"Try to breathe through it," Dean said.

Sam breathed deeply, relaxing as his brother rubbed small circles on his back.

"Ready?"

"Ready," Sam said, nodding. He slowly turned onto his back, wincing as the healing claw marks on his chest pulled tight. His head ached, his arm throbbed, but Sam was definitely ready to leave. The only thing left was continuing the antibiotics and resting. He could do that anywhere.

Dean pulled off his socks leaving Sam's feet bare. "What're you doing?"

"No one stops the person pushing the dead guy." Dean tugged on the hem of the drab, green scrubs shirt he was wearing. "Why else would I wear this?"

"Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

"Funny." Sam lifted his head up high enough to catch sight of his brother fastening the tag around his big toe. "You _are _serious," he hissed.

"Yep," Dean said. "It's perfect. All you have to do is lie still and let me do everything else."

"That's what she said," Sam popped off reflexively.

Dean smirked, gently pushing Sam's head to the gurney with a single finger to his forehead. "You know, for this to work you'll actually have to stop talking."

Sam glared, huffed once, and closed his eyes. A soft rustle of material and the sheet was pulled up over his head. He sighed, louder this time. It felt odd having his head covered and his feet exposed. He wriggled his toes, the string tickling. Dean curled a hand around his foot and Sam stopped, breathing deep. "I'm ready," he said.

"Here we go."

The ride through the hospital halls was disorienting under the cover of the sheet and his hearing muffled. He felt Dean stop a couple of times, talk to people, an elevator ride, and finally a blast of cold air when they exited the facility. He trembled, holding back a shiver. The gurney vibrated roughly over the concrete and he bit back a groan. Then it was over and the sheet was pulled back. Sam blinked several times, clearing his vision. The passenger side door was open, and Dean helped him to a sitting position.

Like a child, Sam sat obediently while Dean put socks and shoes on his feet. "Ready?" Dean asked, his brow creased with genuine concern.

"Absolutely," Sam confirmed, sliding off the gurney to stand. At least, that was the plan. His knees buckled when his feet made contact with the ground, and if not for his brother, he would have taken a header into the car.

Dean grunted from the strain, easing Sam into the seat before fixing him with a look of disapproval. "You've always been stubbornly independent, Sammy." He shut the door, shaking his head as he walked around the front of the Impala. He was still muttering to himself when he opened the driver's door, and slid inside. "I can do it my _own _self."

Sam rolled his eyes, but refrained from commenting. He supposed if he was being honest, Dean had a point. "Where are we headed?" he asked as Dean pulled out of the parking spot.

"Two towns west," Dean replied. "It's about eighty miles or so. Try to get some sleep."

"Maybe later," Sam replied, his voice rough with the edges of pain. Luckily, Dean was busy negotiating the hospital traffic and missed it.

"When's the last time you had anything for pain?" Dean asked, not taking his eyes from the road.

Or maybe not. "I'm fine for now," Sam replied. "Really."

This time, Dean did glance in his direction long enough to ascertain if Sam was being honest. Seemingly satisfied, he turned back to the road. "Okay."

Sam shivered, and Dean cranked the heat. He reached behind the seat, grabbed the old blanket that was normally in the trunk, and tossed it at Sam. "Here."

"Thanks." Sam snuggled down into the blanket, his eyes getting heavy in spite of the increasing aches in his head and chest and the downright insistent throbbing in his arm. The shadowed landscape blurred as the car whizzed past, the tires humming on the tarmac.

He dozed lightly at first, the sounds around him and the vibrations of the car a steady beat to focus on rather than his discomfort. He finally succumbed to sleep when Dean started humming softly, tapping a rhythmic beat on the steering wheel.

"_Dean, wake up, we're here," Dad said, pulling the car to a stop. _

_Sam stirred to life, staring tiredly out the window with half-lidded eyes. _

"_We're at Pastor Jim's?" Dean asked from the front seat. _

_Sam could hear the surprise in his seventeen-year-old brother's voice._

"_I thought we could use a little downtime considering," their dad said, jerking his head at the backseat. "Sammy's had a rough time of it."_

_Sam shivered once at the memory of flying across the room courtesy of an angry poltergeist, arms and legs pin wheeling as everything passed by him in a sickening blur. He didn't really remember the sudden stop, but he did remember waking up with Dad and Dean standing over him, his brother's face white and his father's creased with worry._

"_Really?" Dean sounded relieved. "How long?"_

"_I was thinking a couple of weeks. Maybe we'll even fish. Jim's been trying to convince me to go for years."_

"_Awesome," Dean said, twisting in the seat. "Hey, Sammy, you're awake."_

_Sam nodded, too tired and hurting for more._

Deep aches drove Sam back to consciousness, a moan escaping past his lips before his eyes even opened. He hadn't realized just how much the pain management regime at the hospital had been helping keep it under control.

"We're here, Sammy," Dean said.

The car slowed to a stop, and Sam's stomach lurched forward with the motion.

"I checked us in after Rick—uh, one of the guys from the helicopter, dropped me off at the Impala this afternoon. Just give me a minute to get everything inside."

Sam nodded, pressing his lips together tightly to keep from being sick. He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to the cool glass of the passenger window. His world narrowed to deep, even breaths and a mental chant to not get sick. The door slowly opened, but before he could stop himself from falling, Dean was there gripping the ball of his good shoulder, keeping him inside the car.

"Let's get you inside," Dean said, not waiting for a response before pulling Sam's legs out of the car. "On three."

"Wait." Sam sucked in huge breaths, chest hitching as sore ribs made themselves known. Finally, he looked up at Dean. "Ready."

"One," Dean said, hooking an arm under Sam's uninjured one. "Two."

As Dean pulled him to standing, Sam groaned, "Three."

"Easy, take your time," Dean said, hooking an arm around Sam's waist.

"Just want to get inside and lie down," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper as he choked back bile.

"Right, okay." Dean urged him forward, supporting most of Sam's weight. The going was slow, but steady. "Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Sam shook his head. "Just tired."

Dean frowned. "No sleep until you drink something," he said firmly. "You've been on IV fluids, Sam, but you had a lot to replace."

Sam eased onto the bed, allowing the motion to carry him all the way back until his head rested on the pillow. The rustle of crisp linen followed and soon he was nestled under a layer of blankets. "Dr. Sibley said I was okay."

"That's what you got out of it?" Dean asked, the volume of his voice rising in disbelief.

Sam pursed his lips, biting back a sarcastic reply. He knew that wasn't exactly what she said, but it hadn't sounded as if he was in any danger, just that he needed some recovery time. "Maybe."

"Maybe," Dean repeated, red climbing into his face.

It was then Sam knew he was in trouble.

"Sam, do you have any idea how close of a call this was?"

Sam swallowed hard. There was a right answer, he just wasn't sure he could find it. "I guess not."

Dean nodded, pursing his lips and scrubbed a hand down his face. "Too close." He released a shaky breath. "So, how about you just concede right now, stop being so pigheaded, and just do what I'm asking?"

Sam winced; he obviously hadn't found the right answer. "Okay."

"Good." Dean walked into the kitchenette, rummaged through the refrigerator, and returned with a bottle of juice. "Just drink as much as you can without getting sick." He used great care in propping Sam up with several pillows. Unscrewing the lid, Dean handed the juice to him.

Sam took several swallows before handing the bottle back to Dean, who eyed it critically. "I can't drink any more right now," Sam apologized.

"You did good," Dean said, setting the bottle on the nightstand. He swung the duffel onto the other bed, and pulled out a syringe and a small container.

Sam's eyes widened. "What's that?"

Dean smiled, holding up the bottle. "I _procured _one dose of the really good stuff. After this, I'm afraid you're stuck with pills and, of course, the antibiotics."

A part of Sam wanted to disapprove of the risk Dean had taken stealing from the hospital, but he was grateful for the strong painkiller. The scored pharmaceuticals must have seemed like the silver lining in a crappy hunt to Dean. So, Sam said the only thing he could say. "Thanks."

Dean smiled wider, carefully measuring out a dose. Mindful of the scratches, he placed a hand on Sam's hip, turning him partially on his side. "This'll probably knock you out for a few hours."

Sam struggled to turn onto his back. "Where're you planning to stick that thing?"

"Relax," Dean said, nudging Sam onto his side again. "Just your hip."

Sam took a deep breath as one side of his hospital pants was pulled down far enough for Dean to stick him in the meaty part of his hip. The humiliating part over, his brother helped him into a comfortable position.

"Don't fight it, Sam. You need the rest."

The warm rush as the drugs took hold brought sleep nipping on the heels of relief. Sinking deeper into the mattress, Sam was asleep before Dean finished puttering around the room, unpacking.

"_That's it, Sammy, you got it!" The words were enthusiastic even as his dad wheezed in a pained breath. _

_Sam smiled wide at the rare compliment from his father. "Dean's been helping me practice." He held out a hand to his dad, pulling him to stand in one fluid motion. _

"_It paid off, kiddo." Dad ruffled his hair. "That move right there? If you could take me down with it, you can use it against almost anything we've hunted together so far." _

_Sam wanted to be upset with being treated like a kid when he was almost seventeen, but he couldn't. His father had a way of exasperating him like no one else, but he could make Sam feel incredibly loved and special with a few simple words. _

"_What do you say we find that brother of yours and go out for burgers?"_

_Adrenaline and accomplishment spurred foolhardy bravery. "Hey, Dad?"_

"_Yeah, son?" The older man looked up from dusting the dirt off his clothes._

"_Think we could try Vinnie's tonight instead? According to one of my friends at school, they've got pizza, pasta, and a killer salad bar." Sam held his breath. He knew it was a little more expensive, and a lot more public than his father liked, but burgers would be a quick meal and then they'd all go home and do their own things. He wanted this evening to last longer, a few hours with just his brother and his dad, no hunt in sight._

"_They've got a pool table, too," Dean said, appearing out of nowhere to place a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Could be fun, Dad."_

"_Okay, boys." Their father smiled broadly, crinkles deepening around his eyes. "You sold me. Load 'em up."_

_Sam whispered a thank you to his brother as they walked to the car. _

_TBC_

…**.Supernatural….**

Just one more section left to format! It'll be up tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

**It Takes a Lickin' and Keeps on Tickin'**

**Disclaimer: **Supernatural belongs to Kripke and crew.

**AN: **Well, this is it. It's all posted!

**0-0-0-0-0-0-0-**

Sunlight filtered through the crack in the heavy motel drapes. Dancing dust motes captured Sam's attention as he acquainted himself with his surroundings. The room was small, 80s décor if beige everything was something to go by. He was aware of his injuries, but the discomfort was manageable. For the first time since he'd regained consciousness in the hospital, Sam felt more like himself.

He heard the shower running, and the idea of washing his hair and some of the hospital scent off him was suddenly very appealing. Sam doubted he could coax his brother into allowing it today, but tomorrow he'd insist upon it.

The water turned off, and Sam shifted on the bed, adjusting his pillow as best as he could with one hand, until he was partially sitting. He spied the juice on the nightstand and reached for it.

Sam took several large gulps, delighting in the cold liquid as it slid down his cotton-dry throat. Obviously, Dean had put it back in the refrigerator last night, setting it out again before he took his shower. His brother's electric razor buzzed behind the door, stopping after several minutes.

Dean emerged from the bathroom, immediately noticing Sam was awake. He smiled wide. "Good afternoon, Sleeping Beauty."

_Sleeping Beauty?_ His expression must have been one of utter confusion because Dean took pity on him.

"Guess you don't remember that conversation, either. You corrected me the day you got hurt."

Okay, that made sense. Sam returned Dean's smile with one of his own. "Sorry, no, but at least it explains your sudden infatuation with fairy-tale princesses."

"Whatever, Sam," Dean muttered, ducking back into the bathroom. He came out with a steaming washcloth and a hand towel, and handed both to Sam. "You need to eat something this morning to go with the pills or you'll just yak them up."

Sam grimaced at his brother's words. "Nice." He scrubbed his face with the washcloth and his chest around the scratches. He attempted to wash under his arms, but the sling was difficult to work around and the singing pain of tender flesh discouraged him from trying harder. There were worse smells than pit stink; Dean would just have to live with it. Sam couldn't help but sigh as he neared something that felt like human. Handing the wet cloth wrapped in the hand towel to his brother, he yawned. "Thanks."

Dean nodded a _you're welcome_ and walked forward, tossing the towels into the bathroom and continuing into the kitchen. "What'll it be, cold cereal or oatmeal?"

"Coffee."

"Not one of the choices, Sam," Dean said, opening the cupboard. He pulled out a packet of oatmeal and dumped the contents into a Styrofoam cup.

Sam sipped more of the apple juice, taking the cup of oatmeal when it was held out to him. Dean dropped pills into his hand next, and Sam swallowed them down with another swig. He was only three bites into his oatmeal when his stomach started rumbling. By the time the cup was half empty, he knew it wasn't going to stay down.

"Sammy, you okay?" Dean asked, getting up from the opposite bed and leaning in close.

"I'm gonna be sick." Sam struggled to disentangle himself from the blankets. He pushed Dean's hands away in his urgency.

"Let me help," Dean snapped.

The blankets were ripped away and Sam found himself standing and headed for the bathroom with one arm wrapped over Dean's shoulders. He barely made it to the toilet before the oatmeal, painkillers, and antibiotics hurtled up his throat.

"Oh, God," Sam moaned as the retching strained his bruised ribs and pulled the scratches on his chest. His head felt swollen to twice its normal size, and bright flares of white light appeared in his vision.

"You done?" Dean asked, rubbing small circles on Sam's back.

"Think so." Sam flushed the toilet, nearly falling when his sweaty hand slipped off the seat as he pushed to stand. "That sucked."

"I bet," Dean said, his voice soft with sympathy.

Sam washed his hand, cupping it to splash refreshing water on his face. He rinsed his mouth, then spit into the sink.

"Ready?"

"Yeah," Sam croaked.

The journey back was slower. Dean tried to help, but the pointed look Sam shot in his direction clearly said he could walk under his own power. Sam staggered to the bed, and once he was settled under the covers, he looked up at his brother sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

"You're apologizing for puking?" Dean asked, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline. "Dude, that was nothing. When you were five, you got a bad case of the flu and threw up all over me."

"Thanks for that." Sam's face burned hot from embarrassment. "Besides, it can't be any worse than the time you were coughing up phlegm and spitting it into a bowl you kept under the bed."

"There was nothing wrong with that," Dean said. "If you'd just been looking where you were walking it would have been fine."

"It was like stepping on a pile of slugs," Sam said, "barefoot." His stomach rumbled again at the thought. Maybe he shouldn't be talking about things that were going to unsettle his stomach. He closed his eyes, willing back the nausea. He heard Dean rummaging around in the kitchenette, and then the bed dipped as he sat down.

"Here," Dean said with a nudge to his good shoulder.

Sam opened his eyes as a glass of ice chips was thrust into his hand. "Ugh, no."

"Take it," Dean commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The hospital spent a day topping off your tank. We can't afford for you to get dehydrated or you'll be right back there by tomorrow."

Sam glowered at his brother, resenting the lecture. But Dean did have a valid point and his fears had a tendency to manifest as bluster. Sam nodded, taking the ice chips. He let the first spoonful melt slowly on his tongue while Dean watched from the other bed, concern etched on his face.

The stitches in Sam's arm throbbed from his near wipe-out in the bathroom. Balancing the cup of ice chips on his lap, he reached up with a shaking hand to gently rub out the pain. As he went to pick up the glass, he noticed for the first time that his watch was missing. Frowning, he glanced around, scanning the room for the hospital bag.

"Whatcha looking for?" Dean asked, rescuing the ice chips before they dumped into Sam's lap.

"My stuff from the hospital," Sam said, brow furrowing.

"There wasn't anything. Your clothes were a total loss," Dean said, handing Sam the glass again. "Eat these."

"I, uh, was looking for my watch," Sam mumbled dejectedly. He took another mouthful, the cold chips soothing his abused throat. The puckered look of sympathy on Dean's face was enough to let Sam know what had become of the treasured timepiece. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," Dean said, "I should've told you. It was broken and you wouldn't let them take it off." He moved to sit on Sam's bed. "I told you I'd hang onto it for you."

Unexpected hope flooded Sam. "You still have it?"

"Not exactly," Dean said. "I dropped it off at 'Ye Olde Clock Shoppe' for repair."

Sam swallowed down the ball of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. "You didn't toss it?"

"Of course not!" Dean said, squeezing Sam's uninjured arm. "You were pretty insistent that I take care of it on the helicopter, and when I saw the inscription, I remembered when you got it."

Pain and exhaustion threatened the tenuous hold Sam had on his emotions. His eyes welled, but he held the tears back. "Thank you," he whispered. "The fire…"

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said, his voice rough. "I get it."

Sam dipped his head and used his long bangs to hide his eyes from his brother. "Everything else," his voice cracked, "gone. That stupid, ugly green gorilla I won for Jess at the fair, the old AC/DC shirt you gave me when, when…"

"Geez, Sam," Dean interrupted, rescuing Sam from reliving that night. "You still had that thing?"

"Yeah," Sam said with a small wistful smile. "You gave it to me the day after I found out about what Dad really did. I, uh…" he felt the blush climb his face, "I wore it for a week straight last year when I was down with bronchitis."

Dean chuckled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. "It must've been like a second skin. We were just kids."

Sam laughed in return. "It looked ridiculous." He paused, the smile dropping from his face. "Jess never said a word. It's like she knew."

"She probably had an idea, anyway," Dean said, gesturing to the cup. Sam ate another spoonful of ice. "You have a crappy poker face."

Sam's face wrinkled in protest. "I do not."

"'Fraid so." Dean stood, and walked into the kitchen. A light sweet-spicy scent wafted into the room accompanied by the distinctive fizzing of a carbonated drink. He returned with ginger ale, which Sam eyed cautiously. "Drink this and if you keep it down, we'll take another shot at painkillers. You have to be feeling it."

"A little," Sam admitted. He took the glass from Dean, his hand shaking hard enough that the golden, sparkling liquid nearly spilled over the rim. "Thanks."

"I'm here for you, Sam," Dean said, his eyes narrowed in seriousness.

"I know," Sam said with a nod. He did know. He'd lost a few sentimental possessions, and worst of all, Jess, in the fire, but he hadn't lost his family. He still had Dean right here, right now, and his dad was still…somewhere. Sam smiled at his brother. "Me, too."

Apparently satisfied with his answer, Dean nodded and took a seat on the other bed, flicking on the television. Sam raised an eyebrow, but otherwise didn't a word when his brother tuned it to Oprah. After all, daytime television really did suck.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

They'd been holed up in the same motel room for a week while Sam healed. Even though his brother wasn't up to par quite yet, Dean had felt it was time to move on before they pushed their luck too far. He just had one stop to make on the way out of town.

Over a hundred dollars lighter, Dean emerged from the repair shop with Sam's watch. His brother was slumped against the passenger side door when Dean slid into the Impala. "Here you go, Sammy," he said, handing the watch to Sam.

Dean started the car and pulled out onto the road. The day was warm and sunny, the Impala gassed up and ready to go, and Sam was alive and mostly well on the seat next to him. Life was good.

He noticed Sam hadn't put the watch on, but instead had it turned over, lightly rubbing a finger over the inscription on the back. "I guess not every memory of Dad is a bad one," Dean remarked to the air in general, his tone light.

"No, they're not," Sam said absently. His eyes never left the watch until he lifted his gaze to smile at Dean with double dimples sinking into his cheeks. "Some of them are pretty good, actually."

A wide grin spread across his face as he remembered the day Sam had originally received the watch. The look of sheer happiness and contentment that had been plastered on his younger brother's face had Dean and their dad exchanging grins all evening. "Yeah, they are."

Life was very good indeed.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

_Sam sat on the front steps of the house they were renting until the end of the school year, which was only a few short weeks away. It was his birthday and Dean was working late at Ollie's. He wouldn't be able to join them until later that evening. Dad was in the house researching for a hunt, and Sam was alone on the stoop. _

_Finally turning eighteen wasn't quite the rush of independence and automatic respect for being a man now that Sam had expected. In fact, nothing about turning eighteen was quite what he'd expected. Dad still called all the shots and Dean still treated him like a pain in the ass little brother. Okay, the last part wasn't so bad if he was being honest. _

_It wasn't as if Dad had another car to give him, but Sam had been hoping for some recognition of the day. He'd have been happy with a sappy card and birthday wishes. He sighed, driving his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. _

_Behind him, the screen door squeaked open, then closed with a thunk. The scrape of work boots on wood, and his dad sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. _

"_You're eighteen today, Sam," his dad said, tone serious. "A man, with all the responsibilities and obligations that come with it."_

_Sam nodded. A lecture wasn't what he'd wanted for his birthday, but it wasn't entirely unexpected, he guessed. Dad rarely wasted an opportunity to stress discipline. He was surprised when his dad nudged his shoulder with his own. Sam looked up, making eye contact with his father._

"_It doesn't mean you're on your own. You're my son and I'll always look out for you." A smile appeared on his dad's otherwise stern face. Then his father handed him a small, wrapped box. "Happy Birthday, Sammy."_

_Sam took his time, carefully removing the shiny wrapping paper. He opened the box and pulled out a silver watch. It was heavy, obviously of a high quality. "Thanks, Dad," he said, smiling. _

_His father rolled his hand in a _turn it over_ gesture. _

_Sam flipped the watch and felt his smile grow as he read the simple inscription. He twisted, and threw his arms around his dad. Strong arms wrapped around Sam. "I love you, too, Dad," he whispered._

_A large hand cupped the back of Sam's head, and pulled him in tighter. He buried his face in his father's warm embrace. Turning eighteen was pretty great after all._

_Fin_

…**Supernatural…**

**AN: **Thanks to all who read!


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